


Imperfect

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, PTSD, Post-TWS, Sort of? - Freeform, Stucky - Freeform, background Clintasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:25:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>vb. tense: implies that the past action did not have a definite beginning or a definite end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

It used to be

           hot, long kisses, limbs draped over each other’s like clothing over furniture, languid evenings spent loosely entwined under the thin sheets because they couldn’t pay the heating bill and the furnace was shit anyway, grabby hands stealing sketchbooks and filling them with hideous cartoons of neighbors and politicians, backs pressed against doors and walls, clothing tossed around the loft because they only had two outfits apiece and no dressers, constant warmth because where there was Bucky, there was always Steve and where there was Steve, there was always Bucky chasing after.

 

Now it’s

           a hand brushed gently over the top of a shoulder so that they don’t startle when the other enters on ghost feet, clothing neatly folded and tucked away in either go bags or Ikea dressers, entire rooms of silence between them, two chairs at opposite ends of a polished oak table, unopened sketchbooks tucked beneath a bed beside a metal shield and a red-white-blue uniform, dismantled guns in bedside tables so that nightmares don’t become hospital trips, the heat constantly turned up because ice seems to creep up and collect on their skin when they aren’t watching, too-big limbs folded politely away so as to give each other enough space, Captain America posing in a line with fellow Avengers and the Winter Soldier field-stripping and cleaning his guns in a dark and silent apartment just in case.

           

It used to be

           drawings scattered across the apartment, their thin, butcher-paper scraps fluttering softly in the summer breeze lazily wafting through the open window. Even from the doorway, Bucky could see the skinny hands that had created all the miniature masterpieces flapping about, their thin fingers lax over the few pages that hadn’t slipped away to wing about the cubbyhole.

             Stifling a grin, he dropped his jacket over the back of one of their two chairs and started about the room, plucking up loose scraps and tucking them into a single, more-or-less neat stack. Most were barest outlines of neighbors or views from the apartment or street below – little more than a dozen lines barely connecting enough to form impressions of half-familiar faces and scenes – but one was nearly finished. Despite himself, Bucky’s lips quirked up at the familiar-unfamiliar face gazing off into the distance. His hair was barely started, but the eyes, nose, and lips were distinctly Bucky, even if he mostly knew them through Steve’s repeated drawings.

                He shook his head slightly, fondness tugging up on a corner of his lips. A pencil had dropped out of Steve’s loosened grip, and from the flat, dulled tip, it had clearly been the day’s tool of choice. Snagging it, he pressed the drawings flat against the table against which Steve was slumped in order to scrawl a note before setting them down with a glass of water as a paperweight. Gentle hands repositioned him back against the sofa, the threadbare jacket draped over him as a temporary blanket, and a kiss against his forehead ushered the smaller man back to sleep.

 

Now it

           starts with one Post-It. A little reminder:

          _I’m going out for groceries. Be back by 2:30 pm._

           It’s specific, because Steve has learned from painful experience that vagaries do nothing but distress Bucky, even if he won’t admit it. The hollow, drawn look he wears whenever Steve leaves without saying more than ‘be back soon’ says more than any admissions could. So, he leaves a note. And, soon enough, that one note becomes a dozen, then two, then three.

          _Your name is James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes._

_Gone to get eggs. Back by 10:00 am._

_It’s August 6, 2014._

_Alien attk – on news_

_Tony wants to meet. 3:00pm?_

_Construction in apartment – not guns._

           They’re on the fridge, counter, Bucky’s prosthetic when he’s not paying attention ( ~~never~~ _rarely_ ) – and before he knows it, JARVIS is preordering packages of Post-Its for when Steve’s too busy to stop at the store because of the aliens, Hydra soldiers, or Asgardians storming the city. And then, new ones start showing up.

            _Thanks. You’re Steven Grant Rogers._

_Get milk, too._

_Not in Moscow._

_Don’t die._

_Came early. Be back later._

_Worse._

 

 

It used to be

"I had 'im, y'know. I coulda' taken 'im."

"I know," Bucky lied, stifling a grimace and throwing his arm around Steve's frail shoulders.

They were bony and too-thin, but he forced his thoughts away from how little was left in the apartment ( ~~not enough~~ ) and towards just getting Steve back into the apartment. Though the skinny man was doing his utmost to walk as if unaffected, by the time they’d gone six steps, Bucky’s arm had slid down to his back, holding him up and pulling him forward. Steve was still complaining about Bucky’s intervention, about the way the bigger man was treating some older fellow on the street. Bucky didn’t say anything.

This was the fourth time he’d caught Steve taking on too big of men this week. It was Wednesday.

            _You idiot. When are you going to learn? There are people who are bigger than you, and they’re not gonna’ take pity just ‘cause you started a fight you couldn’t finish. It doesn’t matter how big your heart is when your lungs can’t support it, dumbass._

Of course, by the time they got to the apartment and Bucky was half-carrying the idiot, he didn’t bother saying any of it. They’d had more fights over Steve’s terrier-attitude than either could count, and they always ended in an impasse: Steve wouldn’t stop trying and Bucky wouldn’t stop worrying.

Dropping Steve unceremoniously on the worn sofa, Bucky found a washcloth and wet it mechanically, scrubbing away the blood from Steve’s gaunt face without any undue roughness or gingerness. Steve continued to chatter before his voice finally faded away and only his big blue eyes pleaded with Bucky.

“I can’t just let ‘em rough ‘em up, Buck,” he beseeched.

Bucky stood, walking back into the kitchen with the soiled cloth.

“I know,” he admitted, voice flat, “but I don’t have to like it.”

 

Now it’s

entirely Tony’s fault. It’s not like Steve has been lying, per se, but there’s never been much of a reason to bring up his work with SHIELD or...well, before that. For both of them, there are just too many unhealed wounds. But, of course, Tony’s not exactly known for his sensitivity.

“Heya, Capsicle,” Tony calls, nose inches away from the metal arm half-destroyed on his table.

Bucky’s standing off to the side, blue eyes narrowed as they flick over and catalogue every movement Tony makes, and when Tony speaks, his brows furrow and those eyes dart towards Steve.

“Capsicle?” he echoes.

“Mm, yeah,” Tony hums, voice partially muffled by the proximity of the prosthetic. “Y’know, the whole nose-dive into the Arctic shtick.”

The door is really only a foot or so away - nowhere near too far to flee through - but Steve has a good feeling that Bucky’s wrath will be much worse with two arms and an otherwise empty apartment. It’s safer to use Tony’s presence as heedless protection.

“Nose-dive into the Arctic. Really,” Bucky repeats, curiosity dropping out of his voice quicker than a stone from a rocket.

"He's kinda' got a thing for dumb shit and planes," Tony muses thoughtfully. "Going after Thor on his own? Stupid as hell."

“You tried to fight a god. Alone. Really,” Bucky repeats, voice bled of any emotion.

"It was-" Steve starts futilely.

"Plus the whole no-parachute thing. That's just-" Tony continues absently.

 _It’s remarkable,_ Steve thinks briefly _, wearing a too-big hoodie, ponytail, and one arm, how terrifying Bucky is._

 

It used to be

unspoken. Saying it would be like humming along to their heartbeat. They knew by the way Bucky spent his paychecks on medicine for Steve, by the way that Steve never sold Bucky's favorites of his drawings, by the way Bucky vowed he was and always would be with Steve till the end of the line, by the drawing Steve made of wedding rings they'd never get.

They didn't need to say anything: they knew.

 

Now it's

muddled. Sitting alone on the couch in the common room, Steve's just staring out the window with an open sketchbook in his lap. There's the curve of lips sketched out, parted slightly in that quiet, happy look of his, cool eyes softened and warmed by streetlights,  but he can't get past that. It's not Bucky,  not as he is now. It's a memory, a firefly in a summer night, and he's the kid chasing after but never quite catching up.

"Well, you look cheerful," Natasha greets, dropping down beside him. "What's got your spandex in a twist?"

He glances over, doesn't bother with a fake smile and drops his gaze back down to the offensive sketch.

"Oh," Natasha breathes, softer. "What's wrong?"

"I just," he breaks off, scrubs a hand through his hair. "I don't know - it used to be - I don't know where we stand anymore."

"Okay," she nods after it's clear he's not going on. "Well, where do you want to stand?"

"With him," he answers immediately before catching himself and flushing scarlet.

Natasha grins, her oft-solemn face warmed by the fond smile.

"It's just - it used to be clear, and now - I can't tell," Steve continues hastily.  "I mean, I don't know if he still - if he - or if it's just like you and Clint."

"Me and Clint?" she prompts.

"Yeah, you two are always there for each other and all but you're not - well, romantically involved," he clarifies clumsily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Natasha’s lips quirk up.

"Well, Cap, can I tell you a secret?" she queries, voice teasing, and she pauses for a just a moment before leaning in to continue. “Clint and I's five year anniversary is Monday.”

There is silence for a long, heavy moment, and Steve can feel the blood rushing out of his face.

“I kissed a married woman,” he murmurs faintly.

 

It used to be

      Steve covered in bruises, frail body black and blue but not quite broken. Purple-red ringed his right eye and it was swollen near-shut but it wasn't nearly as tightly sealed as his lips. For his part, Bucky didn’t say a thing to coax Steve out of his self righteous silence: he was right and Steve knew it if he'd only ever think.

       But even with that conviction it was impossible not to feel the way Steve’s eyes were focused on his face, betrayal and sullenness burning through. It made his skin itch. Pausing with his hand still hovering over Steve’s cut-up arm, Bucky chewed at the inside edge of his lip, torn. It wasn’t his fault Steve was a mess, hell, wasn’t his fault the kid couldn’t possibly learn to step down from a fight he couldn’t win - but that didn’t make him feel any better about Steve’s frustration and lashing out.

He’d burnt the letter as soon as he read it - couldn’t bear the thought of Steve finding it and finding out that, of all people, Bucky was the one running away from the war he was chasing. He’d lied instead, said enlisted instead of drafted, and Steve was full of awe, envy, and frustration instead of disgust. It ate at him, but Bucky was hardly Washington: he’d cut down a thousand cherry trees if it’d keep Steve from leaving him.

Impulsively, he ducked his head down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the edge of the shallow cut. Steve twitched, a yelp of surprise and pain escaping, before falling completely still as Bucky pressed another, and another. He kissed his way up the wiry bicep that, for all Steve’s efforts, could barely lift a child, across the undeveloped trapezius that’d never live up to its name, to the joint of Steve’s sharp jawline and slender neck, to the very edge of those full, chapped lips.

“I love you,” he breathed,  and then, Steve was turning and catching his lips with his, and he didn’t really need to hear the reply.

 

Now it’s

screams first thing in the not-even morning. Jolt out of bed, hand to shield. It's not human. Metal. Attack on the building? No, too localized. Out of bed, padding down the hall on bare feet. Past the Ikea display - pause at the corner. Everything's still. But - there.

The shield is rested against the wall, his long legs carrying him to the center of the living room before his brain has quite caught up: the circumstances don't really matter because that's Bucky hunched up on the floor, red on his back, and if Bucky's in pain, Steve will drop the world from his shoulders in order to reach him.

He's on his knees beside him, one hand on his shoulder, before he realizes that that red is blood. It's trickling down Bucky's buckled and burnt back, leaking out from the blunt fingertips dug into his flesh at the joint.

“Buck. Hey, Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve,” he greets, voice soft as his hand where he touches Bucky’s wrist. “You’re safe. It’s September sixth, twenty-fourteen, and you’re in New York City, in our apartment. You’re safe.”

The words elicit little more response than a vague grunt and Bucky’s fingertips digging deeper into his back. Steve’s not entirely sure how he’s done it, because those fingers at least are flesh and bone, but they’re under the edge of the metal plating that begins Bucky’s prosthetic, clearly trying to pry it up.

“Bucky, shh, it’s okay. Your arm’s okay. Tony debugged it, remember? It’s okay,” Steve reassures.

The grunt this time sounds vaguely like words, and Steve frowns, leans in closer.

“Not. me. It’s not - it’s not me.”

He straightens slowly and only partially, lips pressed into a flat line. They’ve both been going to former SHIELD therapists - the same, mostly, that Steve was already seeing before DC. They may have found new positions at universities and other institutions, but there is still a network where there is no longer a Triskelion, and that network isn’t about to drop Captain America and his best friend. That said, Steve has no idea what goes on in Bucky’s sessions, doesn’t sit there and hold his hand through it, and he has no idea how to fix this. He knows, from being told repeatedly and firmly, that _this is not your fault, Steve. What Hydra did to James is not your fault._ It doesn’t make him feel any better.

A flicker of memory dances at the edge of his mind, and, on impulse, he leans down to the metal arm. It’s cold and smooth against his lips, nothing like the flesh he used to kiss, but he doesn’t stop. He kisses up along the geometric seams, across the gleaming scarlet star, over the rounded shoulder and straight to the jagged, buckled and blistered surface where flesh meets metal. His lips smooth over the scars, across weld marks and screws, up a strong neck to the five o'clock shadow shaded jaw, to soft, warm lips.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing over the corner of Bucky’s lips.

Before he can say or do anymore, a metal arm is wrapped around him, mirrored by Bucky’s flesh and bone one, and his head is buried in Steve’s chest. He trembles against him, short, shuddery breaths shaking out of his chest, and Steve wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

 

It used to be

“Hey, Mrs. Rogers, y’done with that yet or y’started on embroidering the curtains, too?”

Bucky always laughed it off, unbothered, as he finished up neat, tiny stitches that sealed one of the other Commandos’ wound, and Steve covered with a good-natured eyeroll. Not one of the men knew, and even though his heart lurched every time someone uttered the joke, he was getting used to it. Slowly. He just had to remind himself that it was a joke, there was no belief behind it, and anyone, most of them thought he’d found a gal in Peggy. Their secret was entirely safe.

"Stop looking so nervous, " Bucky complained later, leaning back and taking a slow drag on his cigarette, "You're makin' me itch."

"I'm not nervous," Steve answered automatically.

Catching himself, he grimaced and Bucky huffed a dry laugh.

"Yeah, and you're not much of a liar, either, " he muttered.

 

Now it's

"Hey, Robocop,  tell your boyfriend to go easy on the coffee maker: it's not made for indestructible old farts, " Tony calls from his spot on the couch.

The rest of the team rolls their eyes, Thor rises to place his plates in the dishwasher,  and Steve’s got that wide-eyed panic again.   _Jesus Christ,_ Bucky laments silently, _you're ninety fucking years old. Can't you lie yet?_ The answer, of course, is 'not really.' He covers faster now and simply leaves out truths,  but expecting him to fabricate a lie is about like expecting a golden retriever to learn how to pirouette. So, instead, Bucky yawns lazily, makes a crack back at Tony, and covers Steve like he always has.

 

It used to be

a secret.  Sure, they lived in something of a progressive neighborhood,  but kids didn't wave rainbow flags around with 'Pride' emblazoned across their chests. It was something private,  something kept behind closed doors and shuttered windows - they didn't talk about it and no one asked. It wasn't like it was rare for two fellas to bunk together back then, when even a penny took hours of work.

Still, Steve sometimes...dreamed. Daydreams,  really, but they were sweeping and beautiful, and for a few brief moments, he let himself want all that.

"Whatcha' drawin'?" Bucky queried, leaning over Steve's shoulder.

Despite being taller than Buck now and able to easily toss him over one shoulder, Steve still yelped in surprise and jumped. Bucky, of course, gave an unapologetic laugh.

"Nothin'," Steve muttered.

"Aw, c'mon, Stevie," Bucky wheedled.  "What is it?"

Bucky was, Steve had discovered early on, a lot like the big black tom that used to live in the alleyway by their homes: he'd swagger around, aloof and saucy, but the moment someone tried to keep something from him, he had to have it. In either case, Steve didn't put up much of a fight.

"I was just uh doodling, " he remarked.

He tilted the sketchbook so Bucky could see, and his heart plummeted as the smile faded off Bucky’s face.

"These for us?" Bucky finally asked.

His voice was oddly subdued, somehow softer and lower than Steve had heard...ever, maybe.

“They were just - I was just - uh,” Steve scrambled.

Before he could continue, Bucky leaned down, pressing his lips to Steve’s in a firm, chaste silencer. He pulled away slowly, blue eyes soft, and Steve felt a thrill of both panic and elation at the immeasurable fondness within them.

“You’re a punk, y’know that?” Bucky murmured.

“Uh,” Steve managed, ever eloquent.

“That one’s mine, right? What if that was cut out - then, yeah, that pattern would stand out more, right?” Bucky suggested, finger air-tracing over the drawing.

As his heart regained its rhythm and Bucky continued spilling out his ideas for their never-to-be wedding bands, Steve felt a grin pulling on his lips before he glanced over at his animated friend.

“Anyone coulda’ seen ya’, y’know,” he pointed out.

Bucky shrugged, smirking faintly over at him.

“Let ‘em.”

 

Now it’s

not exactly subtle, even without Steve’s complete and laughable inability to lie. They hover, Bucky knows, their hands linger and their shoulders are constantly brushing one another’s. They couldn’t get more obvious than if they had neon billboards proclaiming it. But, well, _newlyweds_.

The ring taps against his chest throughout the day, clicking against his tags, and from Steve's quiet smiles, he can feel it, too. Bucky grins, ducks his head, and tugs his hair back into a ponytail. He's not sure how Thor flings himself into battle with loose hair flapping into his eyes, but it's not for him. Even now, when the biggest plans they've got are eating eggs for breakfast, his hair gets shoved immediately out of his face.

"So, Mr. Rogers, " Steve grins, leaning his hip against the counter, "any plans for the day?"

"Hmm," Bucky hums. "Well, _Mr. Barnes_ , that new mattress seems a little stiff. What do you say to breaking it in?"

The grin that curls Steve's lips would destroy Captain America's image in a heartbeat, and Bucky leans over to catch it with a kiss, eggs momentarily forgotten. They split apart after only a moment, mirrored grins reflected in each other's darkening eyes, and, for hardly the first time,  Bucky’s breathless at just how damn beautiful Steve is.

And then their emergency phones go off.

"It's our day off," Steve objects, eyes closed.

"Mm. It is," Bucky agrees.

Steve sighs and the eggs are completely abandoned as they separate briefly to suit up. Then, they're running down the street because Loki's decided he doesn't like New York anymore than he did six months ago, Captain America rattling orders off into the comm and the Winter Soldier finding the best perch for him and his gun.

It's not great against insane ex-gods, but his rifle's amped up on Stark's blend of SHIELD, HYDRA, and Tony tech, and if it doesn't quite kill the strange half-bear,  half-alligator bipeds   Loki brought this time, it at least slows them down. Mjolnir seems to have plenty of experience at taking the things down anyway. His main concern, as ever, is to stop them from getting close to Steve. Much to the captain's exasperation,  he succeeds perfectly.

The others have just about cornered Loki, Thor in the midst of trying to placate his bag-of-cats little brother when things go awry. Bucky's just glanced down to track the rest of the team when a bolt of dirty scarlet flashes past, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve go flying back through a wall.

He doesn't think.

The rifle's dropped, prosthetic grabbing the wall to swing him down, feet connect with cement. Run. Incoherent words through the comm, ignored.

"Steve? Steve, answer me dammit," he yells.          

A low groan sounds somewhere along the comet tail of debris,  and Bucky darts along,  nimble feet keeping him upright on the uneven terrain.  He keeps calling.

"Buck," Steve groans.

He's on hands and knees, uniform tattered, and Bucky’s kneeling beside him in an instant. The sniper's got a few burns from sideways magic, fading cuts from his mad dash, but he looks like a prom queen next to his captain.

"Fuck," Steve spits out with a glob of blood.

"Steve," Bucky breathes, dropping down beside him. "Can you stand?"

The captain gives a noncommittal groan and Bucky reaches out to help him up - and promptly gets blasted in the side.

His uniform's smoking, and the distinctive reek of burning flesh crawls down his airways. He coughs,  flinches , forces himself up. Steve’s trying to stand, but the beargator that shot Bucky is reaiming his strange rifle at him. Bucky’s left arm shoots out, yanks the shield from the rubble, and flings it. The disc takes the alien in the chest, sending him flying out into the street.

"Fuck, Bucky," Steve complains. "It's not a frisbee."  

Bucky doesn't respond, just kneels to pull Steve up to his feet and then yank him close.

"You idiot, " he breathes, leaning their foreheads together. "Don't you ever do something like that again."

"Not really my fault, " Steve objects.

"Don't care, punk," Bucky retorts.

Before Steve can form a longer argument, he tugs him closer and slots their lips together.  There's the faint background noise of other people arriving, but Bucky ignores it. Right here, right now, he's exactly where he wants to be, and neither heaven nor hell could move him.   

"Everyone's staring," Steve warns when they break apart.

"Let 'em," Bucky breathes.

He swears, Steve’s smile could light the world.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, sorry for the long vanishment from here - life kinda' got completely tossed upside down. Anyway, no promises on the continuation of any other stories (surprise), but you'll probably see a lot of Stucky from here on out. I seem to have fallen head over heels for them. Oops.
> 
> As always, any comments/questions/critiques are hugely appreciated!


End file.
